Jack Carver was a third-year history major at Washington State University in 1945 when he got an assignment that would put him in the front row at one of the century's most historic events -- the Nuremberg trials.

World War II was in its final months when Carver headed to France to serve as an infantry platoon leader with the 3rd Division. When the war ended, many of his fellow soldiers headed home, but Carver, then 24, was tapped to stay and assigned guard duty at the prison attached to the Nuremberg Palace of Justice, where the most notorious Nazis were being tried for crimes against humanity.

Decades later, he recalls the chill of seeing the prisoners for the first time, an experience he will share in a talk honoring veterans Thursday at the Museum of History and Industry.

On his first day at Nuremberg in August 1946, one of his fellow guards took him down to the exercise yard where the "Big 21," as they were known, were pacing in a circle. The other guard -- Lt. Jack "Tex" Wheelis from Texas -- waited until one in particular came around.

Goering, by then slimmed down from a prison diet, and weaned off his addiction to codeine pills, smiled at the two guards and clicked his heels, Carver said. "I was a little aghast."

The young Carver felt a wave of awe and disgust.

"Here was the man who was the principal reason I was over there," he said. "He was a bad, and very famous, man."

Carver thought it odd that Wheelis could be friendly with the Nazi party official who had been jointly responsible for the deaths of millions. But it was also proof of Goering's enormous sway and charm that he could manipulate nearly anyone into accommodating his plans, Carver said.

"We gave him a psychological test. Of the 21 (prisoners), he scored the third-highest," Carver said. "A lot of people thought Goering was a dumb clown, but he wasn't."

Even while imprisoned, Goering had star power. Carver recalled that once a group of German army officers was passing through the prison on the way to testify. When Goering was led by, they froze, Carver said. "You could see how revered he was."

The other prisoners paid attention, too.

If one of the other defendants said something during the trial that Goering disagreed with, he would address the court.

"Everyone watched Hermann Goering during the trial," Carver said.

The guards considered it their duty to be civil to the prisoners, and Carver would sometimes visit with Albert Speer, the Nazi armaments minister who was sentenced to 20 years for using slave labor in factories and was the only senior Nazi official to express remorse for his actions.

Still, Wheelis stood out for his rapport with Goering.

Wheelis would later go down in history as perhaps having aided Goering in his final triumph -- eluding the hangman's noose by taking a hidden cyanide pill.

Goering had given Wheelis a gold pen and watch -- items that would have to have been retrieved by a guard from the prisoner's storage locker.

"Wheelis showed me the pen once," Carver said. In a note left for the officer in charge of the prison, Goering indicated he had three cyanide pills, including one still hidden in some cold cream in this storage locker. A second pill was found in Goering's clothing. The third killed him.

The theory, still unproved, is that in retrieving items for Goering, Wheelis, who died later in Korea, may have inadvertently delivered the cyanide to him.

That was the biggest scandal of the day, Carver said.

Keeping the prisoners alive to meet their fates was the single most important duty the guards faced. Whereas the Russian and British military leaders wanted to summarily execute all the German war criminals, the U.S. insisted on a fair trial, he said.

It was left to the guards to ensure that they stood it.

Stairwells and landings were fenced to prevent them from jumping. Dental tools were tracked. Tables were built to collapse. A tank was driven onto the prison grounds to prevent escape attempts. A guard watched each prisoner through a window in his cell at all times.

But on the night before he was scheduled to hang, Goering swallowed his cyanide pill.

At 1 a.m., guards went to retrieve Goering.

"Then the (commander of the prison) came running down saying he was dead," Carver said.

"It was the biggest news story in the world the next morning," he said. "The press were all up in the Palace of Justice awaiting reports of the executions. At 4 a.m. they got the news, and the phones were down the hall." The head of the prison was nearly knocked over in the ensuing rush to the phones.

"People were furious that it (Goering's suicide) had happened on our watch," Carver said.

Goering and most of the others never expressed regret for their actions or the unfathomable pain they had caused.

"They all excused themselves," Carver said.

Carver did not directly witness the executions of 11 Nazis but was with the prisoners in their final minutes.

"It was a tense night," he said. "A pretty unpleasant kind of thing."

Carver's experiences, both in combat and observing the faces of evil up close, have made him believe that war is not a solution.

"It was my duty, and I did it," he said. But he called the current war a "big mistake," and added there is no excuse for abuse of prisoners.

"There have to be certain rules," he said. "You can't be doing that."

After his World War II service ended, Carver finished his history degree, then was called back to serve in Korea. He married, raised two children and, after a brief stint at The Boeing Co., had a long career in sales with Seafirst Bank, now Bank of America.

Since retiring, Carver, now 85, has been volunteering at the Museum of History and Industry and auditing classes daily at the University of Washington just down the hill from his Laurelhurst home.

He has studied archaeology, architecture and art history, but with more than 100 courses under his belt, his first love remains history. The bookshelves of his home are lined with biographies of the figures -- both notorious and great -- who shaped the 20th century. Two of Albert Speer's books, including "Inside the Third Reich," sit alongside tomes by Winston Churchill and others.